


Different Kinds of Deception

by BowlOfGlow



Category: New Russian Sherlock Holmes (2013), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Шерлок Холмс | Sherlock Holmes (TV 2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That of Irene is a different kind of deception – you don’t notice you’ve been tricked until she’s gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Kinds of Deception

**Author's Note:**

> (Spoilers up to episode 7, "Holmes's Last Case")
> 
> Hello, I wrote a ficlet about that unnecessary romantic subplot nobody cares about.  
> You're welcome.

Sherlock tries not to think of Irene too often but whether he acknowledges it or not, the fact that she’s somewhere out there in the world is always at the back of his mind. This sort of background knowledge is comforting, somehow. Even when he’s not consciously thinking about her he’s vaguely aware of Irene’s existence, just as he is of his own heart pumping blood through his veins, even if he can’t hear its beats.

**Paris**

The conjurer on the stage is extremely good, at least judging by the way the audience loudly applauds and cheers. Sherlock’s barely spared him a glance. He only has eyes for Irene. Irene smiling, looking bright, looking gorgeous. 

He only turns back to the stage when Irene leaves the table to play some pieces on the violin. She is a good singer but not a very good violinist – an adequate player, certainly better than Sherlock, but he knows enough to recognize a certain lack of finesse in her technique. Probably no one in the audience notices, and Sherlock himself doesn’t really care. There is something captivating in Irene’s performance, an overflowing joy and artless spontaneity, that makes it a pleasure to watch.

Later, after waking up to an empty bed and the cries of a distraught friend, he’ll remember the conjurer performing on the stage, and think Irene’s act was at least just as good. The thing with Irene though is that _hers_ is a different kind of deception – there is nothing to be awed over, in fact you won’t even notice you’ve been tricked until she’s already left.

**London**

He meets her again, in a different city – a different country – three years later. She’s still singing on a stage, and dancing now, raising her skirts just enough to make the crowd cheer.

“Thirty thousand pounds?” she laughs when Sherlock handcuffs her. “Do you think I’d be singing here if I had _thirty thousand pounds_?”

This makes Sherlock hesitate, because he’d like to believe her, of course. He’d be all too happy to chalk up the simultaneous disappearance of Irene and Lord McIntyre’s diamonds to some coincidental accident, some misunderstanding. A part of him still hopes that not all of Irene’s persona was an elaborate sham, because there are parts he desperately wants to believe true.

“You came back,” Sherlock says in quiet disbelief, holding the cork that was in Irene’s hand, while she looks on with an imploring gaze as if begging him to stop. “Why did you come back?”

Irene’s arm slides down his, and he sees the façade drop, as swift as a curtain at the end of a scene. 

“For my violin!” she snarls, wrenching her arm free and running away.

She’s an adequate violinist and a good singer, but above all she’s an outstanding actress, and Sherlock wonders how he could’ve missed that.

 

“And you, Mr Holmes – do you believe in your yesterday?” Sherlock’s kidnapper asks.

Sherlock would love to, but he is not sure he does.

“The life of a whore isn’t worth thousands of innocent lives.”

It sounds logical and it’s most likely true – he’s repeated variations of this statement to himself often enough, and yet he can’t quite muster the necessary conviction. They are empty words, a parroted sentence that sounds contrived even to his own ears. 

In the end he crumbles as soon as Irene starts begging. He always does.

**Meiringen**

They talk of travelling around Europe as they ride to the hotel. Irene expresses a desire to see Vienna and Madrid. Sherlock is sure Irene would love Vienna, though he doesn’t tell her so. He wonders how much of this is real and how much is a part they’re both playing. He finds he’s willing to play along. 

It’s kind of the same thing with magic tricks, isn’t it? You know none of it is real but still you don't want to look too closely lest you spot the trick. With Irene he’s rewarded with the same sense of wonder. Is it still deception if you’re willing to be deceived?

 _I’ll catch up with you in Madrid. Or in Lisbon. Or in Alexandria,_ Sherlock writes as Irene sleeps, hoping that she won’t try to look too closely, either.

He watches her leave hurriedly and has no way of knowing how much of what he wrote she chose to believe. Maybe she’ll leave for Paris without a second thought for Sherlock, or maybe she’ll wait for him there, worrying about his delay. He tries not take any guess about the most likely scenario. 

That’s the beautiful thing about magic tricks – they’re just as real as one believes them to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title may change because it's 1.45 am.


End file.
